


An Unexpected Recipe for Success

by jamlockk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cake fic, Cakelock, First Kiss, Fluff, Johns knows about the fake suicide, M/M, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3933487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sherlock really did jump out of a cake to surprise John when he returns from the dead? And what if he made a right meal of it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unexpected Recipe for Success

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a conversation with Luna (marriedetectives.tumblr.com) and Anna (frustratedoctor.tumblr.com), here is the story of Sherlock jumping out of a cake for John's birthday and getting more than he bargained for. This started life as daft cracky-ness but apparently I can't do crack so here is fluff instead. 
> 
> (I really hate that title. Any suggestions please make them in the comments! I als hate stupid hyperlink-eating html. Sigh.)
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and that this is no way ruins cake for you ;)
> 
> Come find me on tumblr (jamlockk.tumblr.com) for more cake, kittens and of course, jam.

**An Unexpected Recipe for Success**

“I think I’ll surprise John. Who knows, maybe jump out of a cake?”

Mycroft’s eyes roll in their sockets and he gently pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly entreating a deity neither of them believe in for salvation from this, this barely forgivable trespass against pastry. Sherlock snorts and resumes dressing, tucking his shirt in thoughtfully.

It is nearly John’s birthday. Birthday cakes are a typical indulgence on such occasions, and Sherlock is hoping with all of the heart he is rumoured not to possess that the reunion between detective and blogger will be as joyful as he has pictured it these past two years. Two years is a long time to be parted from his best friend, but it was necessary in order to ensure the complete destruction of Moriarty and his organisation.

John of course insisted he should accompany Sherlock, but this was out of the question. It was bad enough that he had pressured Molly into spilling the beans the day of the… that day. Molly had caved even faster than Sherlock thought she would, and John rushed to stop the intricate plans already set in motion. 

Sherlock jumped. 

John fell.

It had taken only a few minutes to explain the plan afterwards, but his friend had seemed numb as Mycroft’s strangely hushed tones drifted across the desk. John clenched and unclenched his fist, staring at the polished wood surface below Mycroft’s nose. Finally he had looked up, his mouth tight and his eyes glaring. Such a wonderfully expressive face, has John. 

It was with great reluctance that he agreed to play along, play the grieving friend, help Mycroft’s people with a few leads at home while Sherlock tracked down the jigsaw pieces across Europe. It was only supposed to take six months, at most. Two years. 

Sherlock shakes these thoughts loose in his head and refocuses his attention on external stimuli. Mycroft is gesturing to a recent photo of John. It’s been taken as he steps out of the surgery, he’s smiling at the pretty nurse walking beside him. What’s beneath the smile bothers him, but more than that, it’s that the smile is a ghost of John’s previous smiles, as Sherlock remembers them. 

He remembers John’s eyes, the deep light in them glowing with merriment, his face open and mouth mirthful as he grins. That light is missing now. That will have to change. 

And that awful lip-dwelling ferret of a moustache will have to go. It makes him look like an old man, Sherlock bemoans quietly to himself. It’s Mycroft’s turn to snort. 

Sherlock feels a brief lilt of joy in his chest at the prospect of seeing John again, being near him again, hearing his voice and seeing him laugh. John looks.. sad in the photo. Sherlock turns to Mycroft, eyebrow lifted in question. 

Sherlock has been unable to speak with him directly, relying on Mycroft to relay information between them. Although he has duly checked by text in every fortnight, John has not visited in person in a number of months. So, he has been monitored in other ways, Mycroft explains. Mary is a highly capable operative and has grown fond of John. She was recommended as John’s protection detail by Anthea, to whose opinions Mycroft does actually occasionally pay heed. She may have an ulterior motive in championing Mary, but there is no doubt that both women take their duties seriously and are equally well-equipped to handle all situations. They share a deep respect and admiration for their boss and Mycroft chooses his personnel well, Sherlock admits begrudgingly. That they also share a bedroom is immaterial.

“Where will he be?” Sherlock asks, putting down the file and pulling on his suit jacket. 

“He has no plans apparently. I assume he will return to Baker Street, perhaps to celebrate quietly with your erstwhile landlady. He has been taking good care of her, and she him. They have tea on Sundays and make small talk, avoiding more painful subjects.” Mycroft shoots Sherlock a pointed glance at this last. 

“She will have to be informed, obviously. I would like her assistance in putting together a birthday surprise for John,” Sherlock says, his mind already turning to icing and sponge structure and John’s favourite jam. 

“Indeed,” Mycroft drawls lazily, picking imaginary lint from his immaculate sleeve. “Well, I shall leave you to your baking,” he continues, making to leave the room. 

Sherlock, his mind still conjuring images of enormous vanilla sponge cakes, takes one last look at the photo of John and then demands the return of his most treasured item of clothing. 

Shrugging into the Belstaff, he follows Mycroft out of the door.

****** 

It’s hot. And it smells. Sickly sweet, a faint scent of strawberries from the jam, and of the fine icing sugar dusting the top layer. The only layer that is actually made of edible cake, but there is a thin layer of cake all around his current patisserie prison. 

Sherlock is uncomfortable, and then some. But it’ll be worth it to see the look of surprise and joy on John’s face when he emerges, triumphant, from inside a giant Victoria sponge. They’ll laugh then Sherlock will make tea and they’ll scoff as much sponge as they can without being sick all over the carpet. John might even hug him. Oh, how he wants John to hug him. To wrap his arms around John’s shoulders and press his nose into his soft, honey-coloured hair. To stand there, calm and grounded, allowing himself however briefly to feel loved. 

Please, John. Just one embrace, just one short moment to cherish in his mind palace forever. 

Sherlock can hear voices, John and Mrs Hudson, on the other side of the cake and cardboard wall. Mrs Hudson seems to be strangling an owl, John sounds bemused. Mrs Hudson’s laughter fades and Sherlock hears footsteps followed by the sound of the door to the flat closing. 

Almost time. 

John is mumbling to himself. He’s wondering what the hell to do about this giant, ridiculous cake in the middle of his living room. He’s walking around it, gently kicking the solid base (no soggy bottoms for John’s birthday). Sherlock waits until John reaches the front of the cake again and summons all the drama he can muster. 

“Su..mmmmnnfffffphhh!”

The theatrical effect of announcing his return from the “dead” is spectacularly spoiled by the enormous quantity of thick sponge cake lodging itself in his mouth and nose. The ensuing coughing fit doubles Sherlock over and he stumbles over the side of the cake towards John’s stunned form. Or at least, the vague shape he assumes is John. Bit difficult to see through a film of icing. 

It’s at this point Sherlock becomes aware he can’t really breathe, and he tries to push through the cake clogging up his system but all he inhales is more cake. He’s beginning to panic now, the lack of oxygen perpetuating the frantic spluttering and gasping as he tries to force air into his beleaguered lungs.He feels an arm around his middle and a sharp smack to his lower back. And another. And another. It’s no use. The stupid cake won’t budge. 

The panic is really taking hold now, Sherlock wants to flail his arms and grasp his aching throat but he can’t seem to make his limbs obey. Before John he had often thought that a whimsical experiment would be a fitting way to die. This though, is just too ridiculous, he thinks miserably. 

Suddenly the arm around him moves to just below his ribcage and a jerking movement forces him forwards. There’s a grunt from behind him, and a second squeeze. On the third, cake flies from his mouth and splatters onto the floor. The rush of Sherlock’s next breath has him wheezing and he feels himself lowered to his knees, a soothing hand rubbing circles across his back. 

John is murmuring to him, holding him against his chest and continuing to caress his back. Sherlock lets himself slump in John’s arms and clears the last of the sponge off his face. His face is wet where the tears caused by the choking traced their way down his cheeks. 

Finally he lifts his head to look at John, unsure of what he’s hoping or expecting to see there. He forces his expression into cool detachment. 

John is smiling. It’s one of his most luminating smiles, his eyes vibrant and mirthful. There’s unmistakeable affection in those eyes. Sherlock knows he can’t tear himself away, that he’d suffer a million cake-related choking incidents if it meant John would keep looking at him like that. 

John takes his hand away from Sherlock’s back and Sherlock instantly misses its warmth and comfort. He almost makes a ridiculous noise at the loss but then he feels John gently stroking his hair, short, strong fingers brushing through the curls at the nape of his neck. 

“It’s just as soft as I always imagined, even when there’s icing in it,” John says quietly, reverently.

Sherlock is astonished, now virtually gaping at John in sheer disbelief. John is still smiling.

“You are a ridiculous man, you know that?” John asks, smothering a giggle. “You come back, from the dead, on my birthday, stumble out of a giant cake and inhale the bloody stuff so it nearly chokes you to death. You absolute tit.”

John’s voice is soft and fond and he’s still stroking Sherlock’s hair, still smiling. Sherlock clears his throat a little and gathers himself to respond. 

“Happy birthday, John. Not dead, by the way,” he rasps, his throat aching and dry. 

John’s laugh fills the whole room and causes a bright burst of joy in Sherlock’s chest. He finds he’s joining in, his deep chuckles mixing with John’s silly giggles until it becomes too much for his overworked throat and he bends over again, coughing. 

John’s still giggling as he resumes rubbing Sherlock’s back again. When the coughing once more subsides, he looks up. 

Sherlock barely has time to register what’s happening when he suddenly feels John’s lips pressing gently against his. John retreats a little, his eyes closed, then Sherlock feels John’s mouth again. John pulls back and the gentle pressure returns. Sherlock’s eyes drift shut of their own accord, and he lets out a tiny gasp as the realisation hits him. John is kissing him. This realisation is swiftly followed by another – John’s tongue is teasing him. Sherlock gasps again and John’s tongue takes immediate advantage, slipping into Sherlock’s mouth to caress his own tongue. The kiss is tender but Sherlock can feel all the affection, joy, love John is pouring into it. Momentarily overwhelmed, silence reigns in Sherlock’s relentless mind. 

John pulls back for a final time, running a thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. Sherlock slowly opens his eyes. 

“Okay?” John breathes, his eyes sparkling. 

Sherlock nods, sending a shower of icing sugar to float down between them. John giggles again, his hand moving to brush through Sherlock’s curls again. 

“Oh God, it’s in your hair and probably down your shirt as well,” John laughs, getting to his feet and pulling Sherlock up with him.

“Mycroft told me you were back but I didn’t expect such a sugary birthday gift,” he continues, guiding them to the sofa. They sit down together, John’s arms around Sherlock and Sherlock leaning into his warm body.

“Happy birthday, John,” Sherlock whispers, hoping John will kiss him again. John does, and Sherlock thinks that he will never again feel this happy. 

“Thanks love,” John replies, and Sherlock realises he was wrong. He thinks he’ll always be this happy, as long as he has John. And Victoria sponge.


End file.
